


Withered Memories

by MorganBaggins



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19877812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganBaggins/pseuds/MorganBaggins
Summary: Collection of Frodo-centric drabbles (originally posted 2012-2013)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr in 2013. 
> 
> From the prompt "Memories of Sorrow"

Frodo remembered that day all too well. The day his parents set out for a picnic. The day they never came back. He had been left at Brandy Hall under the watch of his Aunt Esmeralda, who was a kind but quiet lass with dark hair and a mind for manners. Frodo had been looking forward to the visit. To him, it was an escape. He hadn’t realized that the life he was escaping from he was soon to lose forever.

He sat tucked against a windowsill in a living room, knees propped up in front of him, a book in his lap. He was lost in the pages of his book until voices jarred him from the tale. It wasn’t so much what was said as how it was said that bothered him. Their voices were harsh and curt as adults tend to get when troubled. A feeling of dread fell over him, nearly smothering him with intensity. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He left the book open on the windowsill and climbed down as softly as he could. His legs were trembling, but he pattered on quietly towards the main hall. No one noticed him. They were all standing around the front door, which was open despite the rain blowing in.

Frodo watched the splatters sink into the carpet at his Aunt Esmeralda’s heels. From where he crouched behind an archway, he could hardly see her face, but he could see it was ghastly pale.

“But it was them?” she said timidly. “Their boat? Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. We found Drogo tangled in a branch a ways downstream. We’re still looking for Primula.”

Esmeralda brought a hand to her heart. Her eyes brimmed with tears and a sound of horror escaped her lips.

Frodo was too scared to stay hidden. His mother was missing! That was too much. But they had found his father, at least. From the way they spoke of him, he wasn’t in a good state. Frodo had to see for himself. He feared he was badly hurt. He imagined him scraped and bleeding, or feverishly ill. In desperation, he hurried out into the hall. “What happened? Where’s Dad? Can I see him?”

Esmeralda spun around. She cried in alarm when she saw him. His Uncle Saradoc stepped forward with wide eyes. “Frodo! You shouldn’t be here!” he turned to his wife. “Get him away at once. He can’t see this.”

Frodo’s fear soon turned to anger. His parents were hurt and Saradoc wanted to get rid of him! He slipped around Esmeralda, avoiding her grasp. “See what? If something’s happened to Dad, I want to know.”

His uncle wouldn’t meet his eyes. He stood blocking the doorway and his gaze flickered to his wife. “Esmeralda…”

That was all it took. One flicker from the boy and Frodo was slipping past him, through the front door and into the dreary storm. The grass was damp. A group of hobbits were clustered around the edge of the river. Beside them was a boat, shattered into pieces. And on the ground between them lay a hobbit, drenched and unmoving.

Frodo felt his heart pound. His chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe. Still, he ran forward, hope and dread mingling together at the sight of what surely must be his father lying at the feet of such a somber crowd. “Dad!”

The hobbits turned to him in alarm. Some of them shrunk away like he carried the plague. Others grabbed him and held him back. They spoke words to him, but he didn’t understand. All he could understand was that his father was lying there, stiff and pale, without moving. Rain pounded against his face. Frodo stared as it battered his father, gathering in a puddle around his frozen body. Frodo knew then that it would never again rise: that his father would never again read to him by the fire or tuck him into bed. 

His father was dead and he was alone.


	2. Seeds of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo makes an important friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr (2013).

As excited as he was to move into Bag End, Frodo remembers little of the first few weeks. In a way, it was as if he’d always been there: from the day he arrived, he considered it home. Bilbo was an excellent guardian, better than he could ask for. The rooms were comfortable, the kitchen stocked, the library full, and the grounds filled with glorious gardens and fields excellent for roaming. The only thing missing were hobbits his own age.

Frodo didn’t dwell on this, although a vague feeling of melancholy came and went, especially when Bilbo was preoccupied with his writing. Only looking back, did he realize loneliness was the culprit. 

On a day when he was feeling particularly lonely, he saw a young hobbit coming up the road with a wobbly pile of firewood stacked precariously in his arms. The stack was nearly twice the lad’s size and completely hid his face. Frodo, filled with both curiosity and the desire to help, hurried out the door to assist. He ran down the path, where he reached a gate just as the lad reached the opposite side. Frodo grabbed the latch and started to open the gate, but the poor lad with the firewood stumbled right into it, spilling logs and twigs all over the road and quite a startled Frodo.

They tumbled across the path and squashed a patch of clovers and a few tiny flowers. 

The lad looked down at the mess in horror, then stared up at Frodo with wide eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sir!” he said at once. “I didn’t mean to go spilling firewood all over you, promise!” He then launched into a long-winded ramble about how sorry he was and how he didn’t expect Frodo to forgive him, though he would be awfully appreciative if he did.

Frodo, meanwhile, began picking up the firewood with a smile. He would do more than forgive the young hobbit, he decided: he would befriend him. When at last there was a break in the rambling (for the lad had realized Frodo was helping pick up the firewood and was staring at him in awe) he asked simply, “What’s your name?”

“Samwise Gamgee.”

“Well, Samwise Gamgee. I’m Frodo Baggins.” He offered a hand to the younger hobbit and smiled as the lad shook it. Yes, he thought to himself, I have a feeling we’ll be good friends.

It wasn’t until many years later that he realized just how true this was.


	3. A Mother's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Frodo comes down with a flu-like illness and is comforted by his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr (2013) with the note: I wanted to do something with Frodo’s mother, since she still seems rather vague to me (probably because we know essentially nothing about her) so I tried writing.

Fire crackled through the night air. Over the distant choir of insects, a single voice rose, humming a soft lullaby. Frodo stirred. He was lying on his side. Fabric spanned beneath him, but it was not the soft sheets of his bed: it was course and thick with raised patterns that tugged against his fragile skin. What pain they caused was nothing compared to the awful ache growing inside his head. It pounded and throbbed, like a monster trapped, thrashing to be released. Despite the blanket tucked around him, he shivered with cold.

Beside him, a chair creaked. He opened his eyes. Firelight fell across the burgundy carpet, in long thin lines between bookshelves, end tables, and the occasional basket of yarn or fruit. He was in the parlor, lying on the couch. His mother sat beside him, less than an arm’s length away, watching with pale grey eyes that glided towards his as he blinked. Gently, she brushed the bangs from his face and ran a cool hand across his forehead. 

“How are you feeling, my love?” she asked. 

“Miserable.” His voice came out scratchy and he sniffled. “It hurts.” 

“I know.” Primula ran her thumb across his brow in a soothing motion.

“Make it go away,” he begged, “please.” 

“I can’t,” she said, eyes brimming with sympathy. “The fever has to run its course.” 

Frodo frowned. “I wish it would just kill me and get it over with.” 

Her lips contorted to a deep frown and her eyes filled with pain. “You’re not going to die, love,” she said. “Not today.” 

“But I will one day?” he asked. 

“Everyone dies eventually,” she said. “Death is a part of life, as is pain and suffering. You will encounter all of them at some point or another, but they will pass, and greater things will come from their passing. Like the spring that comes from winter, or the roses from decay.” 

Frodo thought about this a moment, but it was difficult to concentrate through the pain. “I don’t want you to die,” he said, at last, voicing his greatest concern. “At least, not while I’m alive.” 

His mother gave a soft melancholic laugh. “That’s one wish I hope does not come true. You’re my son, Frodo, and I love you with all my heart. I would die contently, knowing you have many merry days left ahead of you. And I would hope you will find some happiness knowing that.“

Here she paused, letting her hand fall slowly to her side. Frodo stiffened, suddenly feeling cold and exposed. He shivered once more. 

"But no one is dying tonight,” she continued. Leaning forwards, her dark hair brushed his cheek as she pulled the covers to his chin, and tucked them gently around his shoulders. “Try and get some sleep. With luck, you will feel better in the morning.”


End file.
